Authors: Uther Pendragon
Shape, however, is a different matter. She had found a year later that some boys could hit one spot within her some of the time, and that had made all of the difference. From behind, with her bent over the furniture, her new lover had shown that he could do more than hit it; he had rubbed over it until she spasmed, and then had stroked across it until he had joined her response. Then, cleaned up once again, he had taken her up to meet his family.
"Sorry to leave you like that," Pat had said.
"That's all right. Keda and Tommy needed you, and the experience was delightful by itself. As much as one might like Peking duck, a good porterhouse now and then satisfies other appetites. And this lady, um..."
"Susan," she had said. They had been so intimate, but never exchanged names.
"Susan more than relieved any stress that your friend's prejudices might have left."
"That's kind of you Susan, but I hope you left a little for me. You don't know until you nurse twins how frustrating breast stimulation can be by itself."
Then she had met Julie, and run into the Prof again. Later she found that this new lover could touch her special spot in other positions as well; but the time had passed for asking: "And what is your name?" Strangely, Prof wasn't sure when she had asked him.
Despite the other men she had enjoyed in those days, and she had enjoyed quite a few, this one was her special "castle lover." But she had forgotten all about the castle and the island from the instant that she had stepped on the boat to go back.
The memories were arousing, but not satisfying. The hay was scratchy; it was time to clean up. Susan found a trough with intake and outlet pipes in the lower part of the barn. It didn't match the castle's bidets and cartons of bottled douches, but she didn't give sloppy seconds.
When she felt the chilly water, that resolution wavered. But she knew the cure for that. Draping her clothes over the gate to a stall, she dropped all the way down. The first splash against her still-sensitive
vulva was piercing as a knife, but numbness soon followed. She gave the slow flow a minute or two to clean her off, then clambered out.
"You're braver than I am, or part polar bear." The comment frightened her, although neither words nor tone sounded hostile. She clutched her clothes to her front and looked towards the sound. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. Want help drying off? My name's Mat." A man naked from the waist up came towards her. He was carrying a shirt and an undershirt in his hand. He started drying her back with the shirt and handed the undershirt to her.
"Thanks Mat," she said. "My name's Susan. My clothes are mostly wool." His cotton clothes felt much smoother on her skin.
"You came here with
Uther," Mat asked, "didn't you? Does he claim to be several centuries old back home?"
"He's seventy, and about to be professor emeritus. The University makes teachers retire at that age. I was at his retirement party, and none of us could believe that he was even that old. Centuries don't come into it."
"How did he get those pigstickers through the Mundane part of the route? And could he really use them? The way he grabbed them looked authentic."
"We weren't dressed like that until we had almost reached the guards. I expected all of you to be transformed as well. As for the weapons, he can use a sword. At his retirement party, I learned that he had been faculty adviser for the fencing club. A past president of the club said that they would still have an intervarsity team if advisors had been permitted to compete; as it was, they didn't have a decent saber. I don't know about the spear."
"The two of you certainly made a dramatic entrance. And then you wandered off with Mark. That man can really write."
"Wander" sounded like a euphemism for their rushed exit. Mat certainly had known what they intended to do. Susan felt the beginnings of a blush and wondered why. This had been billed as an orgy after all; she had performed in the same bed (or on the same floor) with others often enough. But the name caught her attention.
"Mark?" she asked. "Do you know his last name?"
"I'm not sure that I know his first name. Mark Aster writes wonderful stories in the first person about his life with Pat and Julie. Now, the person you were with is the hero of the stories; he is the narrator of the stories. But the narrator's name is never mentioned in the stories. Is he the author of the stories?"
"You could ask."
"I did ask Mark, and he evaded. You could have asked for yourself."
"There never seemed to be a time to ask, and now is much too late."
"You're in love with him?" She blushed, but his voice dropped when he continued, "Just as I am with Julie."
"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry if I interrupted anything."
"I wish you had. As far as I know, three men have Julie tied to a bed somewhere."
"I'm sorry! She's a fool, I wouldn't turn you down."
"She didn't," he said. "Somehow, I never get close enough to ask. Want help on your legs?"
He knelt down and wiped them off before she replied: "You couldn't be worse off if you did."
"You can't find the right time to ask your ideal's name, but you advise me to walk up to my ideal and say '
wannafuck?' Everybody else's life is easier." The man had a point. "Besides, I have something to dream about. That's better than a no, it could possibly be better than a yes."
"I've decided that he isn't an author," she said. "Authors are weird."
"Arriving with
Pendragon in that outfit, are you sure that you are in any position to talk?"
"It was all the Prof's doing. He's an author, isn't he?"
Mat shrugged. Susan spread out her clothes over the stall door again. Shouldn't she be putting them on? Even after the vigorous rubdown, she was still chill. But Mat was still kneeling, which put his face level with her waist.
"You really wouldn't turn me down?" he asked.
"No I wouldn't." And she wouldn't. He had been generous to her, and looked quite presentable.
He leaned forward, still kneeling, and kissed her just above the hairline. She pulled his head against her belly. Slowly, his lips trailed up her body until they kissed the underside of her breasts. When both had been lavishly laved, he kissed between them and up to her chin. Then he stood straight and kissed her fully on her mouth. She had to strain upwards to meet him, but it was well worth it. Then he was holding her pressed against him as he kissed her forehead and ears.
"Get your sandals," he whispered. After she put them on, he led her towards one door of the barn. "Hay is a bit scratchy, let's see whether the tack room is occupied."
The weather might be warmer in the valley than outside, but it was still chilly. They looked silly carrying their clothes, he naked to his waist, she to her ankles. She compromised by throwing the cloak around her. The tack room had all sorts of leather straps and harness hanging from nails in the walls, and several wooden tables which looked like carpenter’s benches to her. Shelves along the wall held tools and all sorts of complicated pieces of metal, but she couldn't see a single tack. Mat latched the door behind them.
She looked at all that leather with some concern; she didn't know Mat well enough to play tie-up games. But he expressed no interest in the harness. Instead he moved some material from one bench, tossed a rough blanket over it, and put his damp shirt over the blanket. Then he turned to her. They kissed briefly before he swung her up so she was sitting on the shirt. She dropped her clothes and his undershirt beside her to free up her hands; his were already roaming under the cloak.
The bench was high enough so that her head was above his. That changed the kisses subtly, but gave him much better access to her breasts. She contented herself with caressing his shoulders and occasionally kissing the top of his ears, while he stroked and kissed her for a luxurious length of time. The bench was too short for lying down and too high for them to connect while she sat on the edge.
When he had teased her past the point where she could wait any longer, she pushed him back and hopped down. His trousers confined his arousal without quite concealing it. Kneeling to remove the impediments, she was inches from his phallus when it was freed. It looked lovely, but it smelled used.
"Someone has been here before me," she said.
"Two, actually.
I got to the valley some time before you did."
"After two, you can still get hard. I'm impressed." He couldn't have spent more than a couple of hours here, after all. It was about noon.
"I have inspiration," he said. Nice man! But the credit was more his than hers.
After giving it a kiss for encouragement, she turned around and leaned over the bench. They needed a little adjustment to get the heights right, ending up with Mat's legs spread wide and hers close together. He felt *enormous* when they stood like that, but there were none of the twinges of pain that sometimes accompanied truly gigantic cocks.
"So tight," he said. So he was enjoying it too. She tightened herself a little more and felt him slide slowly deeper, rubbing all of her in his progress. When his legs were pressed against hers, she slowly lowered her belly so that she was swaybacked between the support of her legs and that of her arms. Mat sank in another centimeter during that change. He pulled on her hip bones and wiggled himself against her until they were joined as deeply as they could be in that position.
He kissed her spine before smoothing his hands up her torso to hold her hanging breasts. Then he began a slow motion back and forth within her. A small adjustment on her part brought those strokes across just the right point. Held by him, holding him, she spiraled into her climax. Every motion fired her more; every thrill drove her to move against him. Sensing something, he abandoned her right breast to press her mound in time with his motions. She came and came.
He was still within her when she next noticed the external world. He was moving very slowly, all the way in but not very far out; and he was helping to support her weight.
When she could support her full weight, she started pushing back against his thrusts. He responded by taking deeper strokes and returning his hand to her mound. Her arousal, only partly abated during the period of his diminished motion, spiraled upwards again. He began to thrust harder, and she held one hand against the wall to press back. The warmth spread from her mound to her breasts and thighs; when it reached her throat, she heard herself sobbing and gasping.
Then fire flared through her, and again, and again. He was still moving strongly when she returned, and the spiral resumed almost immediately. Unable to stand much more of these sensations, she parted her legs a little and reached between them. She cupped his scrotum in her palm and reached a finger behind it. His response was to press against her more deeply, driving into her from his hips rather than moving his whole body.
Her last use of voluntary muscles was to press her finger into him just behind his scrotum. Then she soared away to the sounds of his groans and the feel of him pulsing within her.
When she recovered this time, she was lying across the bench and he was sitting on the floor behind her. When he kissed the back of her knee, she pushed herself up to a standing position.
She turned and they looked at each other for a few moments. She saw a grin on his face and suspected that hers matched it. From his seated position, he had a close-up view of her snatch; but he deserved it if he were still interested. She had to say something.
"Wow."
"Wow," he agreed.
"Do you always last that long?"
"No," he said. "I think that the third time was a charm."
"Well, whatever. It was an effective charm if so." She turned back and started to
regather her clothes.
"Unless horse troughs are a particular fetish," he said, "there is something you should know. Our hostess has provided showers in the yurt."